A Morning Spent in My Room
In My Room
I lay my head upon Frida Kahlo
upon her bosom I dream of color
to counteract my older skins pallor
my feet near broken candle for tallow.
At eyesight green until boarded fencing
embrace embroidered paisley thick curtain
to shade my room when life is uncertain
these times I keep re-experiencing.
A collage of a neuron we once made
of education periodical
a triptych acrylic of memory.
A crescent moon during a masquerade,
one house plant turns home to tropical,
to struggle bringing out the sensory.
In my room I notice a lack of clock
a place where I can go where time stands still
a finch will stop and stare upon my sill
to flutter back to fly within his flock.
Then other times I’ll sit and read a book
the only noise the turning of the page,
some new editions, some yellow with age,
the temptation to stop and take a look.
Then ponder books that wait inside of me
as thoughts that swirl like paints upon easel
or words from poets voices in the air.
The children’s finger paints for all to see
my daughter’s drawing of a blue weasel
all tacked upon my wall with tender care.
Here where I listen to Charlie Parker
with breeze from open window flying free
into a world of tile and mirror me
well lit with electric lights when darker.
The place I lay my head to fall asleep
upon this Frida Kahlo wrapped pillow
where life can find the time to be mellow
and Chamomile tea will start to steep.
I am only bedding here for awhile
for maybe only a few years or more
among these blankets and homemade fine art.
At anytime of day I’m free to smile
while sitting on my bed with feet on floor
to think about this day and how to start.
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